


All Your Troubles I Will Share

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affairs, Childbirth, Discussion of Abortion, End of the World, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, No Smut, Pregnancy, Pregnant Crowley (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are directed by their Head Offices to influence the Spawn of Satan in the ways of good and evil. The weight of the world is on their shoulders as they raise the Antichrist. Like any stressful job, they find a way to distract themselves. Too bad all their relaxation leads to a wrench in the Great Plan.Or, the one where the gardener knocks up the nanny.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Aziraphale (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 254
Collections: Anonymous, anonymous





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head for a while now. I know something like this has been written before so I decided to do my take on it. It's a bit of a weird one. What else can I say but enjoy?

Crowley shouldn’t drink eggnog.

It’s not like it’s awful, though it is certainly not his drink of choice. However, if he wanted to get drunk, it did the job well enough. And with the mood in the American Ambassador Estate’s kitchen as merry as it was, there was no way he couldn’t be tempted to match the festive mood.

He had limited experience with actual holiday parties with humans who celebrated these days in earnest rather than a mockery of what they stood for, as was the case for Hell. 

(Hell’s holiday parties are … interesting. They’re somewhat like if Christmas was looked at through a funhouse mirror, displaying all the unsavory elements. Lusty Santa Clauses. Impressive displays of gluttony. And of course, a White Elephant that is perhaps a little too creative.

Crowley has never had  _ fun  _ at them, but they’re all anyone ever talks about at least a month after they happen, so he usually went to stay in the loop.)

But this was his first time really encountering everything without that warped perception. It was the Dowling Staff holiday party, and Nanny Ashtoreth was given the night off (Thaddeus, Harriet, Warlock and a host of secret service agents are going to the cinema) and the kitchen was brimming with laughter and camaraderie. She was handed a glass by Rory, the sous-chef, and she couldn’t refuse Rory’s grin on a normal day and certainly not when he was wearing a cherry-red Santa hat and a silly sexy elf apron. 

So Ashtoreth drank, and enjoyed several refills, from the cinnamon-rimmed glass and she joined in for a game of “Pin the Angel on the Tree.” As she lifted up the sleep mask used as a blind, seeing her quite accurate placement of a paper angel, she gave a knowing glance off to the side to Brother Francis. 

Brother Francis sat on the edge of the party, gingerly sipping something green and cranberry-filled that Carol, the maid, had referred to as “Grinch-Punch” and thrust into his hands. He had never really been one for a crowded, tacky event like this one. He most likely stayed because it would be suspicious if he wasn’t to attend, one of the few members of the staff no participating in the festivities. 

(Crowley wasn’t sure what Heaven’s holiday parties were like. Aziraphale said that he would show up only to exchange gifts as mandated by the middle management and have some brief and polite conversation as orchestral versions of  _ My Favorite Things  _ saturated the entire party.

Apparently, someone higher up got it in their head that  _ The Sound of Music  _ was in fact, a seasonally appropriate soundtrack.)

Ashtoreth handed the sleep mask to the next contestant and went to go and console the gardener, sitting on the couch with his drink laced between his fingers. 

James, the butler, was flipping through channels on the television, searching for something before he decided on, of all things,  _ The Sound of Music _ , which was having its annual broadcast. 

Brother Francis’ smile instantly thinned at just a few words of the all-too-familiar film and Ashtoreth knew that he was haunted by Ghosts of Holiday Parties Past. Still, she could not help but look up to him and murmur, “ _ Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens _ …” 

His blue eyes narrowed and she held back a laugh. 

She liked to tease him, in this way, as a bit of a reminder that despite their radically different appearances, they still have been friends for over six millennia. 

Rory’s Irish accent cut through the assembled group as he proclaimed: “Looks like Ashtoreth won the Angel contest!”

“Did you hear that?” Ashtoreth murmured to Francis between another sip of egg nog, her voice somewhat slurred. “I  _ won _ .” She looked up to Rory, who was pulling out a coffee gift card from the basket filled with prizes.

“It seems as though I am very good at pinning angels,” she said, aloud and proud and of course, very tipsy as she pulled herself up from the ottoman to retrieve her reward. 

“Oh _ , Nanny _ ,” Francis said with a hearty laugh but just enough of a look upon his face that betrayed him, made him look like Aziraphale for a moment, scoffing a lewd comment that only he would understand. 

Once Ashtoreth received her prize, she returned to her sport next to Francis.

She knew there were rumors about them. How could there not be, when the two, when not attending their duties, were always seemed close? Chatting over the breakfast table, walking together in the garden. And somehow their days off usually coincided. It was enough to make anyone suspicious.

Ashtoreth could only dream of what sort of details everyone was filling up in their heads about the nanny and the gardener. Perhaps it was that they both were pining for each other, exchanging wayward and forlorn glances, desperately hoping to brush against one another as they walked out the door. As if this was some sort of Jane Austen novel. And then, of course, there was the possibility of the opposite direction; that whatever was happening between Francis and Ashtoreth was perhaps something much dirtier and more torrid. 

Sometimes, when she was bored during the day while Warlock was in school and she no longer felt like concocting evil things for the Antichrist to participate in, she liked to guess who out of Dowling's expansive staff fell into what category. She thought Calvin, a secret service agent (with whom she felt kinship because he often wore sunglasses inside) fell into believing what was happening between Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis was some Victorian slow romance. Lydia, the young cook with dark hair and bright eyes, was most likely in the scandalous camp. 

And until recently, neither of these theories of what was going on between them was quite on the money. Of course, no matter what, these rumors could never be the entire truth. Human beings, especially human beings of the modern era, and certainly those in the United Kingdom, didn’t quite have the faculty to even consider the Divine and the Occult. Well, some did. But those people were generally dismissed at large as crazed and zealous. 

But the fact of the matter was that, for the first year of their residence with the Dowlings, Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis kept their relationship strictly professional. They were, after all, working on preventing the Great War. Trusted with such a grave duty (though covert from their stated purpose for being their Head Officea, respectively) that was for the good of all humanity, they had to be serious about their job. But the thing about such straining work and the fear of if their plan failed, is that it required some sort of an outlet. 

They tried to be discreet about this whole thing, be it the supernatural entities raising the Antichrist or this affair their personas were engaged in. During the time periods they were apart, however, doubt would sometimes creep into Ashtoreth’s mind. She would wonder if this was a bad idea. The absence made her think that possibly the two of them should cut ties except for their typical, civil relationship.

However, drinks like eggnog could convince Ashtoreth that this whole thing was, in fact, a good idea. 

Things usually tend to happen when Aziraphale and Crowley drink together. Be it perhaps for good - the plan to save Earth from Armageddon, for example - or for, well, evil - the Discotek Incident of 1978 came to mind - there was something usually afoot either during or in the direct aftermath of the consumption of quantities of alcohol. 

Carnal activity was new. 

Perhaps it was because of this new, alternative reality they were in. Of course, at the root of it all, they were still, in fact, an angel and a demon. But now they had these other personas, these other  _ people _ , who felt the same level of attraction to each other that has been boiling beneath the surface for years. Because of this distance, they were more willing to put their true nature behind and do what Aziraphale and Crowley, hereditary enemies, could never.

Francis’ little cottage - more a shed, really - was on the perimeter of the gardens and often, Ashtoreth stole away to it in the middle of the night. Sometimes they talked about their progress with Warlock over cups of tea (sometimes served Irish) or sat in the silence of their fears if they failed. 

But on a night like tonight, they would hold each other and seal the gap between themselves, like the world truly was ending around them. They would pull close and kiss, hands lingering over flesh as if this was the last time they would ever touch, desperate to remember each detail of one another. There was an urgency, but at the same time, there was a languidness to this whole thing, as if at the same time they were trying to savor one another all while very aware of the ticking clock around them. 

The job of raising the Antichrist towards a normal childhood was obviously very stressful work and they needed something to keep their minds off of Armageddon, if only for mere minutes. 

This Affair, not quite as defined as the Arrangement, had been going on for almost six months. A hot summer evening off was the cumulative result of over a year of stolen glances over shrubberies, subtle smirks over coffee cups in the kitchen, and vases of fresh flowers appearing on window sills. Of course, there had been the hesitancy - never mind all the baggage Aziraphale and Crowley had. Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth were  _ employees _ and couldn’t be  _ fraternizing  _ with one another.

In a tangled bedsheet, flushed, they swore that is was just a one-off thing, that they would never again be tempted. They would stick to their mission and be done with that.

But the thing about temptation? It was hard to resist. 

There were no set, official guidelines to the Affair, other than  _ don’t get caught redhanded by the Dowlings or other staff _ ; it could take them whenever they pleased. Like tonight, the night of the Christmas party.

Francis left first - he was always a bit of a lightweight, he admitted - and he stumbled through December rain across the lawn back to his cottage for the night. 

Ashtoreth waited. This was all a game, after all, and she couldn’t break that cardinal role. She waited a full forty-five minutes, sitting curled up in a chair, occasionally joining in heated debate over proper Christmas cracker etiquette or sipping the remainder of perhaps her fifth (sixth?) mug of eggnog. When she deemed it was time, she pulled her legs out from underneath her and wished everyone in the house a goodnight. She had a lot to do tomorrow, keeping Warlock in line with it being the twenty-fourth and all. 

She started to go down the hall and upstairs to where the servant's quarters were located - until she veered right and ducked outside the side door. That December night was brisk and rainy, though not enough for her risk blowing her cover and fetching her coat. With her hands tucked into her skirt pockets, she stole alway to the direction of Francis’ dwelling. 

Rapping on the door twice, he was waiting for her, grinning with those buck teeth she had called silly when they were first settling into their role. 

The cottage was not much more than a bed pressed against the wall, a bookshelf filled with two dozen or so spine-cracked copies and a host of gardening supplies, a table covered messily with several used mugs, leather-bound notebooks, and a vase of flowers still blooming six months out of season. 

The mugs are miracled clean and the two of them resumed the ritual that is so familiar. A bottle of wine was uncorked and split between the nanny and gardener. She knew that mixing the eggnog and wine, to any human, would not have been the brightest idea. However, given her supernatural, well, nature, mixing cocktails couldn't be as offensive as it might be.

“To the holiday?” Francis offered, raising his glass.

“To the holiday,” she replied as their stoneware mugs met in the middle. 

She knew she should also limit herself. A raging hangover is the last thing she could have ever wanted on Christmas Eve. And yet, as much as she tried to deny herself, knowing the taxing day ahead of keeping a seven-year-old entertained and respectful to a house full of diplomats and other important people, she couldn’t help herself. 

She accepted another two glasses. 

It was sometime around that second glass, when the nanny and the gardener were effectively sloshed, that they kissed. After a solid hour of flirting and playing with each other, Nanny set her mug aside and slid into Francis’ lap, straddling his plush thighs and pulled him against her lips, slow and soft and what she needed. 

He smirked and then reached for the bottle once more. 

“More wine?” He offered, the West Country accent still there even though they were alone, though now fairly slurred. 

(Aziraphale, more so than Crowley, had trouble slipping back into his alter ego’s voice and preferred to stay that way when he appeared as Francis. And so, when she came to him as Ashtoreth, Crowley’s voice was still tinged with the Scottish brogue.

But even without that, it seemed easier to not wish things when the voice was not the same as the one you've clung to for six thousand years.)

She forgot who was to make the first real move to the bed, but before she knew it, she was there.

(That first night, when of course they were quite blotto, she had been the one to press her lips against Francis’ before he resisted, remembering who they were, what their mission was. She nearly left, ashamed of herself for messing this ( _ six thousand years _ ) up in one sloppy pass. 

“Wait,” he called after her. She turned around and looked into those grey eyes, the color of a fading thunderstorm. “I think that -”

“Yes, Francis?” She asked, reminded him. 

“Ashtoreth.” He strode towards her and pulled her in for a kiss, picking up exactly where they left off.

And that was settled.)

But somehow, that night before Christmas Eve as the rain drummed against the windows of the cottage, they fumbled into bed. Ashtoreth sank into the quilt, her ginger curls spread across the pillow. Buttons popped and fabric was brushed aside. Francis’ lips shifted attention from her lips to her neck as she helped him tug off his suspenders and let his shirt fall down his shoulders. 

Her head pulled back as he peppered the crook of her neck. “Are you - o _ h _ \-  _ gonna climb my every mountain! _ ” She asked, grinning. 

“Oh, dearest,  _ really _ ,” Francis huffed into her neck, but continued to hold her. His mouth trailed down further, rolling over her sternum. 

And because she still liked to tease him:“Are you- m _ mh _ \- _gonna ford my every stream_?”

For those cheeky comments, Ashtoreth was bracing herself to be kicked out of Francis’ bed, fed up from her teasing. But instead, she stayed.

That night, together, they did things that would have made any nun blush.


	2. Two.

That Christmas Eve’s Eve was the last time Ashtoreth and Francis had a chance to steal away to each other before the start of the new year. 

The week of the holiday was a whirlwind of entertaining Warlock, brushing aside wrapping paper, reminding him to both thank the Spanish Ambassador for the gift, and then letting him cause a ruckus before dinner. It was only the second Christmas she had experienced with the Dowlings and, she must admit, it was an exciting time. Not only was it delightful to see Warlock give in to avarice and disorderly behavior spurred by sugar and gifts, but there was something else, something Ashtoreth didn’t want to admit warmed her supposedly cold and supposedly demonic heart. 

She was technically ancient, of course, as old as time itself. Although humans could generally surprise her, there wasn’t much in the world that could overwhelm her anymore. But as she saw, through Warlock’s eyes, the holiday with wide-eyed wonder of a child, she felt like she was seeing something so old be renewed. 

Even still, there was still influencing to be done and she had to continue her work past the holiday. No rest for the wicked and all that. 

In the week following Christmas, the Dowlings returned to Washington, D.C. to visit extended family and Nanny was brought along to take care of Warlock. She had charmed the grandparents enough, although Mr. Thaddeus Dowling Sr. referred to her as “Mrs. Doubtfire” at some point during the week stay, and nobody could prove there was a correlation to that backhanded comment and one of his cufflinks popping off in the restroom of the Ritz-Carlton and tumbling down the drain. 

While Nanny Ashtoreth attended to Warlock for another few days of cocktail parties and grand dinners with relatives, the boy was going to be without the light that Brother Francis brought with him. Taking your gardener on vacation didn’t make sense and although the two of them had spent an evening plotting on a way that he needed to travel to the United States, they couldn’t dispute that fact. So, as it fits with The Arrangement, Ashtoreth picked up on the slack and reminded Warlock to be kind to everyone who visited and greets his Great Aunt Trudy with a hug. 

Being both Light and Dark was exhausting. Crowley had done it before, taking part in Aziraphale’s blessings and inspirations after he finished all of his tempting. But with those instances, of course, he usually had some sort of break in between. It wasn’t a constant balancing good and evil. Having such a contradictory nature would, no doubt, be tiring to any immortal being. 

Her extended exhaustion could have also been the time change and the hours upon hours in an airplane. She was still in a human corporation and human bodies were exhausted by long-distance travel. It hadn’t typically bothered Crowley. But then again, Crowley had never been responsible for a child during international travel. Perhaps it was just the general stress that permuted this job?

That probably was why she was still so tired when she came home to the UK. 

The night she and Warlock returned, she met Francis in his cottage to discuss how the week went in terms of his half of the deal. They drank mulled cider and chatted for a while. She could tell with his soft smiles and gentle nods that he was very pleased with her work. And when they kissed, it was tender, a reunion, and Ashtoreth was glad to be back in his arms and back to the familiar. But Ashtoreth denied Francis’ suggestion that she stay a bit longer. She had to sleep. 

Not wanted to, had to. 

Life at the Dowlings went on with the hum of boredom in early January before Warlock went back to school after the holidays. Just like the summer and the time before he started school full time, it was up to Nanny Ashtoreth to keep him entertained and cared for almost entirely as Tad and Harriet returned to their normal positions and duties. 

Because of all these reasons, she was able to explain away how she would hit the pillow every night, craving that century-long nap she had in another life. But these reasons, of course, could not explain the sudden nausea. 

She had tried, of course, to blame it away. The day it started was the day she had to make a visit to Head Office. 

Crowley had to make regular visits to Hell every few months. He was, after all, responsible for the care and keeping of The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Prince of This World, Spawn of Satan. As someone who had such an intimate role in the uprising of the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, who was such a key figure in bringing about the End of Days, frequent reports were necessary to make sure everything was going to plan. 

On his scheduled days off as Nanny, he traveled into London and entered that inconspicuous office building to present his progress to the Dukes and Lords of Hell, making sure they were as up-to-date about how their boss’ son was being raised to the Darkness. Crowley filled them in with details as he saw fit. He would typically forgo mentioning all the times that Warlock Dowling presented his Nanny with a crayon drawing or held the door open for Rory when his hands were filled with groceries. Instead, he would emphasize when he got into a tussle during his football club’s practice (nevermind if it was about which comic book superhero was better; the seeds of discord and conflict within him were already planted.) 

The last week of January was his next appointment, where he was supposed to present on what type of evil the holiday season inspired in the young Antichrist. Crowley had his notes collected, written upon little cards, to brief Lord Beelzebub, who as near second-in-command to Satan, had been assigned to oversee his upbringing. 

These meetings concerning Warlock were typically only half-hour meetings, due to their frequency, and Crowley didn’t mind reporting on these affairs as he did his other, more creative demonic endeavors. Finally, the other demons seemed enthused about his work, although many were still somewhat clueless about the exact nature of it. Breeding murder and mayhem with a child took patience, something that was lacking by many of the higher-ups.

Crowley parked the Bentley outside the office building and hung his parking tag in the mirror before strolling inside and down the escalator to the depths of Hell. 

Walking through the crowd, avoiding lighting fixtures and ambling demons, took time and it was why Crowley tried, most mornings, to be early. Although, of course, no one in Hell wore a watch and no one was ever quite on time. However, given the weight of his presentation, he always made sure to arrive somewhat early. 

He stood in the presentation room, casual, as the Dukes of Hell and those who were privy to information concerning the Antichrist filed inside. Behind his dark glasses, he gave them nods as they entered, pleased to present his update. 

It was a custom, of course, to rise when a Prince entered the room. For as much as Hell tried to differentiate itself from the Opposition, there was still an emphasis on formality. Two dozen or so chairs squeaked against the floor as feet clamored to stand in the presence of the Lord of the Flies. 

“ _ Demon Crowley _ ,” Beelzebub boomed as they breezed into the room, ignoring the legions that stood in their wake.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley greeted, offering a professional smile to them. “Pleasure to always hold court with you.”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The Prince drawled as they walked to the front of the space and sat in their chair at the front of the room. The lesser demons followed suit. “What have you got for me this month?”

“Some really great stuff, Beelzebub,” Crowley exclaimed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his organized note cards. “So, starting with the tenth of December, during our last meet, I focused my effort on the sin of greed. Usual kids stuff, you know, planting catalogs and leaving on the television to give him unconscious messages of capitalist greed. Those seeds were already planted by his father and mother, of course, but fostered by my own influence -”

And then, he had to stop. The burn of bile rushed to his throat and he has the sudden urge to gag. Through watery eyes, he could see Beelzebub shift their head and raise an eyebrow. The other two dozen demons watched him carefully. 

He took several slow, deep breaths before he could even think about continuing. 

“My apologies, Lord Beelzebub,” he finally choked. He swallowed and then took another breath of rancid, hellish air. “I, uh, don’t know what came over me there.” 

He took one final deep breath, and then resumed his presentation without further incident 

Crowley tried not to think about that sudden sickness as he emerged from Hell to the bustling streets of London, taking in long, deep breaths outside the building. The smell of boiling sulfur, of thousands of swarming, sweaty corporations pushing each other was enough to make anyone suddenly a bit green around the gills. (Never mind he had gone eons without it bothering him.)

It was easy to place the blame, to sweep the whole event aside as the Bentley bolted through town - a supernatural event to make any human nauseous - and headed to the Dowlings’ regal house. In the car, he shifted his corporation back to Ashtoreth before crossing the gravel car park and heading inside.

The rest of the day was spent helping Warlock complete his homework and then watching him play with his new toys, listening to a long-winded and, frankly, adorable explanation of what his toys were cars but also robots could do. During this entire time, she didn’t feel any worse. It still lingered, but she could mostly ignore it because it wasn’t as intense as the time she was in Hell. 

That evening, however, when she stepped into the kitchen to eat with Warlock, nausea came in full force. As she crossed the threshold to where Lydia was fixing two plates on the kitchen table (the adults were using the dining room later tonight for a formal dinner), she had to step back for a moment from the smell of brussels sprouts. 

Nearly as bad as sulfur, she wasn’t sure if she could make it through mealtime without some sort of … consequence. 

And so, just like she did in Hell, she took deep breaths through her mouth as she sat down. She tried to hide her sudden bout of illness and move on with what she had to do. The demons could ignore her, but the human staff could not. 

“You okay, Ash?” Lydia asked setting down the plates in front of Nanny and Warlock. She had instantly noticed how out of it she must have looked. 

Lydia’s hand ran over the other’s shoulder, causing her to look up and see that one of her shapely eyebrows were raised in alarm. It reminded Ashtoreth of the same expression Beelzebub had given her earlier that day, only this time Ashtoreth knew it was of genuine concern. 

“Oh, dearie, I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you worry.”

And Lydia left it like that as she tucked away to use the restroom before she got dinner ready for the adults.

She didn’t say much of anything when Ashtoreth didn’t eat much of her meal. (Ashtoreth had claimed, early on, to have the ‘appetite of a bird’, knowing that she couldn’t eat at all without anyone making a stir.) 

But because the cook didn’t say anything didn’t mean an astute child left her completely alone. 

“You going to eat, Nanny?” Warlock asked. “If I haffta eat my brussels sprouts, you gotta, too.”

She looked down at her charge and feigned a smile. “I’m afraid I’m feeling a touch under the weather, lamb. But do finish your vegetables for me; you know you have to grow big and strong.”

“To harness the powers of destruction and chaos?”

“Exactly, love.”

Lydia later brought her some tea and crackers and Nanny nursed those down before retiring for the night.

The mindset that this was very temporary was what she focused on for the next day or two or even three days. By almost half a week into feeling ill at the most inconvenient times, she found she couldn’t miracle away her sickness because it was very persistent.

Perhaps it was from Warlock. The Headmaster of the elite school he attended had sent out a notice that a stomach virus was going around, even this early into the term. However, demon corporations, to a fault, were rarely affected by the same issues that humans were; the complexities of healthcare were not necessary when the body you possessed was only seen as a tool for work. She had managed to avoid the Black Death and the Spanish Influenza for decades, so how could one tiny little bug, passed around by eight-year-olds, be the one thing to bring her down?

There had to be something else. 

Try as Ashtoreth might hide the fatigue and her nausea, the other members of the staff began to take notice. Lydia began to brew her ginger tea instead of coffee. As she walked the halls, some looked at her with concern, as if she was catching. 

Francis mentioned once, during a meeting, that he heard she was feeling unwell. In a hushed voice, he was Aziraphale again and asked: “Do you think that your corporation is . . . failing?”

No. That couldn’t happen. Corporations were meant to last, even if they got a little worn down. Certainly, the body he had been given was still in good condition. At least, he hoped it was. He would have to have a delay in the plan just for him to spend weeks dotting ‘T’s and crossing ‘I’s to receive a new one. 

“I don’t think so,” Crowley answered, firm. But there was still doubt in his mind. 

It was eventually Carol who brought up a very bold suggestion. The nanny and the maid didn’t cross paths very often, but one mid-morning while Warlock was in school, they met in a confrontation. 

It wasn’t truly a confrontation, because Carol had been sent to polish the furniture and vacuum the carpet. Nanny, on the other hand, had been there to retrieve some of the toys Warlock had left behind so Carol could do her job. But before Ashtoreth could pick up the Legos assembled on the floor, a wave of nausea washed over her and had to sit down.

Carol found her, curled up in the chair, glasses off and eyes closed, trying to breathe through the sickness that sent her spiraling back into the seat.

“Nanny Ashtoreth?” Carol’s voice was soft, light. 

Ashtoreth sat upright before she placed the glasses back on and looked up to her coworker, who had that same sincere look on her face as Lydia did the week prior. 

“You okay?” She asked. Ashtoreth grimaced at the thought of those two words being the refrain in her life for the past month. 

“Right as rain, my dear,” she mumbled, running her hands on her skirt and standing up from her chair. She really had to move on and get on with her work, which now meant getting to the floor and tucking little bricks back into a box. “I appreciate the concern. I won’t be a moment more and then I can get out of your way.”

Carol hummed, vacuum in hand. She watched for a moment more as Nanny tucked a few figurines with the rest of the lot before she spoke her piece: “It’s just, I haven’t seen anyone with that look on their face in a while.”

“And what look is that?” Nanny asked as she finished and set the plastic lid over the blue box to be taken up to Warlock’s bedroom. 

“Just sick and tired,” Carol said, unhelpful. But then she said something that set Ashtoreth down a path she could never return from: “I haven’t seen it since I saw it on my own face about five years when I had my son.”

And Ashtoreth laughed because she couldn’t help it. Perhaps it was because the thought, for some reason, made her incredibly nervous or because it all seemed incredibly ridiculous. 

“I’m being serious,” Carol said after a moment. “This has been going on for weeks now and -”

“I assure you, I’ve done nothing of the sort to lead me into such a condition,” Astoreth said, before taking the Lego box and leaving. 

As she went about her day, however, she began to ponder why Carol would think this. 

She knew everyone had speculation on the nature of her relationship with Brother Francis, but she had placed Carol more on the side of hopeless romantic. In her mind, she shifted Carol back onto the “Definitely Shagging” board as she went up to Warlock’s room. 

From the bedroom, there was an incredible view of the expansive lawn below. She saw Francis leave the house, carrying his box of tools, headed in the direction of the greenhouse.

She knocked at the window and he looked up. Smiled. Waved. And then went about his merry way. 

When he was gone, she smiled to herself before her mind wandered back to her thoughts and she was frozen contemplating this absurd suggestion. 

Because, in a way, it made perfect sense. For all intents and purposes, the two of them had fully functional Efforts and all that they usually implied. Despite knowing this biological fact, she and Francis had consummate their relationship a few months prior and neither had given much concern to needing protection. Given their usual level of intoxication when they had sex, they never gave it so much of a concern to conjure up a condom. 

The more she thought, the angrier she became because  _ she had seen too many Lifetime movies to understand how damn cliche this was _ . __

Nevermind the greater Implications of what this would mean if it was true. The meaning for their Mission and for the continued progress of raising the Antichrist. The meaning for the end of the world. The meaning facing not only Ashtoreth and Francis but Aziraphale and Crowley. 

Try as she might, Ashtoreth tried to put it out of her mind as she continued her work and tried to laugh it off as just a human’s speculation.

But it was still buzzing thought as she helped Warlock get ready for bed - both Harriet and Thaddeus were out for dinner that night - all while she reminded him to brush his back teeth, unfolded a pair of pajamas, and hummed her usual, hellish lullaby. The last task, something she had been doing nearly every night for nearly two years, was the one that was the hardest to get through because it led to that nagging little voice’s eager return. 

She tried not to worry Warlock as she pulled his coverlet over his shoulders and wished him sweet dreams of chaos and bloodshed; she knew that there most likely was a very fretful look on her face as her mind tumbled back to her anxiety.

Once the door was closed and she was back in her quarters, she busied herself with getting ready for bed - undressing and organizing the stiff suit set into her closet, setting her sunglasses in their case next on the dresser, and tugging on the black chemise she used as a nightgown. She tucked herself into the bathroom attached to her quarters and began her nightly routine of putting her hair in curlers and spreading moisturizer across her face. 

And still, the voice would say:  _ Up the spout.  _

_ Stop being so scared,  _ she told herself as she violently brushed her teeth. She spat in the sink, took a sip of water, and spat into the sink again. 

Ashtoreth stood up and looked at her reflection in the mirror, staring back at yellow irises before they lingered back down her corporation. With a few tugs, she examined if it had changed shape yet - highly unlikely, considering that the events leading to this potential predicament were only last month. 

_ Stop dancing around it, you stupid demon.  _

Her hand spread across her middle as she closed her eyes and searched. 

With a shaky inhale, she found what she was looking for: a whisper of life nestled deep inside herself. Nothing more than an apple seed, beating,  _ growing _ . 

She exhaled.

_ Shit.  _


	3. Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussion of abortion.

Brother Francis was in the greenhouse, according to Rory.

That next morning after her discovery, she knew she had to seek out the gardener. She could have gone to him that night, knowing he’d be up and voraciously reading in his cottage while the rest of the staff retired in the main house. But she needed to try and sleep, to toss and turn for a while as she wrestled with her own thoughts about this situation. 

However, when she arrived in the kitchen, it was just Rory sitting at the table. Ashtoreth was determined to get a cup of coffee after her sleepless night and getting Warlock up, dressed, fed and out to the chauffeur to school. She had wanted to know if Francis stopped in for a nip of breakfast and where he was going to be for the morning. 

“Why do you ask?” Rory, after giving his answer, added some milk to his tea as he looked through today’s paper.

“I just wanted to ask him about some . . . seeds.” Her lying wasn’t good when operating with a mind fuzzy with life-altering information. Satan, what if the  _ fetus _ was taking some of her demonic edge? Or if pregnancy brain was already a thing? Couldn’t be, could it? It was only the size of the blueberry, according to the Internet. Although, what did that even  _ mean _ \- blueberries could be all different sizes and -

“O-okay?” Rory interrupted her million-miles an hour thought and clearly didn’t believe her. “He should still be out there.”

Choosing not to elaborate, Ashtoreth finished her coffee and then, straightening her suit, crossed the garden to the greenhouse, where from the foggy window panes she could see the figure of Francis hard at work. When she opened the door, she found him standing over the herbs that Lydia wanted to grow for her cooking; rosemary, thyme, cilantro, basil, mint. (And by some miracle, they looked okay. Not quite to the demon’s standard, however. Perhaps stopping by later and giving them a stern talking to would help her somehow. But, of course, at another time.)

At the sound of the open door and the brush of January air into the greenhouse, Francis turned and looked at her. 

“Oh, Nanny Ashtoreth!” Francis lit up the way that he always did whenever he saw her. His cheerfulness, his obliviousness hurt her even more. “This is a nice surprise. What brings you to the greenhouse this morning?”

“I need to speak with you,” she said, in a hushed voice. A voice that perhaps betrayed how scared she was of this whole thing. 

“Well, now’s good,” he told her, dusting off dirt from his gloves and standing straight. A look of concern grew on his face. “Are you alright, my dear?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. The Scottish accent disappeared and she was Crowley. “But I can’t speak to you here.”

“Well.” The West Country slipped and Aziraphale was standing there, more concerned than his counterpart. “How about Saturday at St. James’? I have a meeting with higher up that day at around noon, but we could meet before or after. As long as it isn’t urgent.”

It was, but Crowley could wait. Although she was desperate to not be alone in this fact, she needed a few more days to wrap her mind around what was happening within her before she could share it at some level of coherence. 

“I only have the morning off,” Crowley said. “It will have to be before.”

Aziraphale agreed to the date. He was still hesitant, though, and tried to reach for her hand before she could turn and exit the greenhouse. “Crowley. I hope this isn’t anything too serious. After all this work we’ve done, I would hate if there was anything sent to us that would put a wrench in the Plan.”

She left without an answer.

***

“Oh.” That's all Aziraphale said, when Crowley told him. 

They sat on their usual bench in St. James’ Park, on what must have seemed like another clandestine meeting. Crowley had managed to be cool about the whole thing, sitting in his typical, spread-out position. He was thankful for his glasses so he could avoid the gaze of the angel who was glowing brightly, seemingly pleased to meet again out of the context of Francis and Ashtoreth. His “Hello!” was typical-Aziraphale cheery and Crowley’s heart ached for how blissfully unaware he was, and how what he was about to tell him was going to wipe the smile off his face. 

He sat now, perfectly straight so his back does not even graze the wood of the bench. His hands were folded neatly over his lap. He hadn’t moved an inch since the words fell from Crowley’s mouth.

They sat in silence for a few more seconds, the demon waiting for the angel to supply anything else. When he didn’t, Crowley simply said: “ _ Oh?  _ That’s all you got to say to me, angel?”

“Oh no, I just -” Aziraphale stopped. “It appears that I am at a loss for words.”

Despite himself, Crowley snorted. “Haven’t heard you say something like that in a few decades.”

Flustered, Aziraphale suddenly tugged at his bow-tie and pulled at his jacket, refusing to look anywhere else but at the duck pond in front of them. 

Crowley crossed his arms in front of himself, over his still quite flat stomach. “Well, clearly neither of us saw this coming.”

Aziraphale choked a, “ _ Clearly _ ” in agreement. He cleared his throat and began, “I didn’t think it was possible for -”

“An angel to knock up a demon?” Crowley supplied. 

He saw Aziraphale twitch at the phrasing before saying, “Well, there’s no need to put it like that. I was going to say that it didn’t seem possible for us to be expecting.”

“I didn’t think it was, either,” Crowley admitted. 

The silence returned. This time longer. 

This could happen, they knew deep down, but very rarely anymore and usually with their own sort. And certainly not with the Opposition. Any sort of fraternizing between them would have been frowned upon, save for the usual conduct between sworn enemies, and certainly not . . .  _ propagation _ . 

“I didn't do anything that could have prevented this,” Crowley said. They really hadn't been careful, avoiding all sorts of cautionary measures. “Since I had, you know, the full plumbing.” 

“I didn't either,” Aziraphale murmured.

They both fell silent again. 

Around them, St. James’ Park is alive and well even in the dead of winter. On a lovely, and unseasonably warm late January afternoon, diplomats and agents chattered in close circles. Swans waddled in and out of the water, giving pleading eyes to passerbyers to spare a few crisps. Mothers and fathers were keeping up with buzzing children, tugging along tricycles behind them. On a day like today, this was always the consistency, flowing like a river through the sidewalk before where the angel and demon sat, who both enjoyed taking in the hum of life before them. 

But today, they contemplated the possibility of one that they had made together. 

Aziraphale’s voice was soft as he asked, “What are we going to do?”

And Crowley wished he could give him an answer. Well, he could, but not a certain one. Not one with a definite way with exactly what he wanted to do. 

“I mean, there's really only two ways we can go about this,” Crowley sniffed finally. “We could keep going on, defying what our Head Offices want for us. Or we could, you know, end it.”

“Oh.” There was that word again. Or sound. Was it more of an utterance, really?

They were silent once more, dumbfounded. 

“It’s your decision, of course,” Aziraphale clarified, a minute later. “I didn't mean for it to sound like I should influence you in any direction.”

Crowley adjusted himself on the bench, as a young couple walked in the path in front of them, a child no more than three toddling between them, small hands clasped around their parents’. Everywhere he looked now, it seemed that the whole damn world was populated with kids, filled with prams and crying babies. (Not that his current career path was particularly helpful at constantly reminding him of his very precarious situation.)

“It's half yours, angel,” Crowley said, finally. “I wanted your input on this.”

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale was speechless once again. With his faint wince, Crowley knew that he would probably not have used the word to use  _ yours _ . It only added emotion and attachment to this affair, when the two of them were trying to look at the whole picture rationally. “It’s still your choice.”

“Not exactly pleasant either way,” Crowley hmmed, hoping to give off his still absolute confusion about what to do. 

He knew what he most likely should do. Or at least, there was a choice that he knew wouldn’t jeopardize what he has set in place for the prevention of Armageddon. (A choice, deep down, that the thought of still stirred something up inside him. Something he couldn’t quite put into words.)

“But one option is going to be better than the other,” he continued. 

Aziraphale nodded with a slow but full understanding. Whatever he felt about it, he seemed to be in agreement that wiping the slate clean, forgetting about this misstep on the road to the End of the World, would be the easiest thing to do. 

The angel took a deep breath and then: “Would you just - take care of it yourself? The process, I mean. I’m not entirely sure what this would entail. I’m just - fearful of you having to see a human doctor and them asking questions. They’re very good at that, you know. You know, if your corporation doesn’t do everything that it’s supposed to do. With everything else going on, it might be difficult to try and conjure up a heart rate and blood pressure and, well, everything else.” 

“I’ll probably handle it myself, ” Crowley mused. “It might mean a couple of rocky days but I’m sure I can use my vacation time to take care of myself. Or sick days. Something.” 

“Do you want me to …. Take off as well? For support, I mean.” Aziraphale paused. Resumed. “If you would like.”

And finally, he moved his head so that the two of them were finally looking at one another. The expression on Aziraphale's face was one he had seen before, of course. But at times he saw it, it was when he had mocked him for his pressing concern, his fussing. But at that moment, when Crowley let himself admit that he’s lost, he wants to take comfort in the fretting. He has always known the angel to worry about him, about what Hell could do if they found out what he had done.

“Yeah,” Crowley breathed.

Because he had to admit it, but the two of them were now entwined. They had always been. Even before there was a being in this plane of existence that was a little bit of them both, they had always been tied together. It was what millennia on Earth had done. It was much more than just the Arrangement. It was the centuries of familiarity, being closer to each other than to their respective superiors. It was the same voice as the only consistency of thousands of years on a changing planet. 

And even if they had to do what they had to do in order to move forward, it was right that they were going to do it together. 

They were silent for one minute more before Crowley’s mind got the better of him. “Angel. What if - what if this is all part of the Plan?” 

The angel’s response was quick; he was always the one of the two contemplating the significance of events in relation to how God was unfolding them. “I don't think the Almighty likes to mess with anyone’s reproductive choices anymore.” Aziraphale paused. “Especially since the last time.”

“Right.” But Crowley still wondered. He couldn’t help but ponder this little life already blooming inside him, what it all means. Crowley knew the ways of the universe well enough to know that this sidestep might have held some meaning.

Big Ben tolled in the background. Aziraphale sat up straighter - a feat Crowley thought wasn't possible. “Oh! I didn’t even realize the time. I’m so, so sorry. I-”

“I know you have to leave,” Crowley said, cavalier. Though there’s nothing he’d want more for Aziraphale to stay by his side, even if they aren’t talking. He just needs  _ somebody _ right now.

( Or at least, it would be nice for Aziraphale to stay a few minutes longer, only to arrive in Heaven late and tell Gabriel to stuff it.)

There was still that look on Aziraphale’s face, but Crowley continued: “Go tell ‘em about how Warlock won a prize for Tidiest Uniform last week. Cleanliness is close to godliness and all that?”

Aziraphale nodded and stood up. “I don't want to pull you a certain way,” he said. “But please. Don’t be afraid to reach out if you want to continue this chat.”

“I'll keep you in the loop,” Crowley affirmed and over the rim of his glasses, he looked at Aziraphale. There's still something like fear in his eyes, uncertainty, but this is the closest they can come to any sort of answer today. 

The angel disappeared into the typical crowds of London on a Saturday, headed back to that normal and nondescript office building to report his work on influencing the Spawn of Satan. Leaving, of course, a demon to sit alone on a bench. 

_ Not quite alone, anymore,  _ he thought to himself with a snort before he got up, tucked his hands in his coat pockets, and he, too, disappeared among the city. 


	4. Four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while. I had to take a break from writing as I finished my undergraduate work and had to reckon with *gestures vaguely* the state of the world. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support of this story and I hope you all find a little joy in this fic through all of this uncertainty.

After that initial meeting in St. James’ Park, Crowley and Aziraphale don’t get a chance to meet again for nearly a week. While there were moments where they passed one another as Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis and they’d look at each other with glances of Knowing rather than speak. A hushed “Feeling alright, Nanny?” over breakfast would perhaps reveal too much about their situation. 

During his meeting with Heaven, Aziraphale was given another task - apparently, the Opposition didn’t view his work with the Antichrist as anything of extreme importance. Crowley knew about all the times that the Higher Ups would give him commendation, but mention the real chance he had at failure, casting doubt in his role. So because the legions of angels saw him as dispensable, Aziraphale would be notified of a series of miracles that needed to be performed in and around the London metropolitan area and would have to follow where Heaven commanded.

So Francis took a few days to visit his frail mother in Plymouth and Warlock was without divine influence for a while. Just like the holiday times, it was up to Nanny Ashtoreth to make sure that her charge was receiving balanced attention. And this time, as the being inside her was growing fast. (At least, from what she knew from the internet. The internet said it was raspberry-sized at this time. Which, again, what the Heaven did that even _mean_?)

Ashtoreth thought of him often while he was gone.

She had no true way to contact him - Aziraphale didn’t have a mobile and Crowley tried to call the bookshop to no answer. With no way to talk to him, she thought about the distressed state she had left him in on Saturday in the park. She thought of how unfair it was to leave him to go on working with the knowledge that the precarious existence they were leading - in addition to the one they’ve led for hundreds of years - had one more very complicated piece added to it. Already a fretful person outside of his alter-ego, this was probably devastating to him. She could only imagine how hard it must have been to calm himself in Heaven, trying hard not to fiddle with his ring and with his nervous smile. 

She was distressed, too. It manifested in different ways, leading to her spacing out while Warlock babbled about his newest comic book and pacing at night.

Almost a week later, and she was still uncertain about her choices. Every day, she held her hand to her stomach and that small glow of life within her was getting stronger.

It was a whisper, but it was there. 

She tried to think of it as what it was - just _the possibility_ of life. It made it easier for her to think about ending the pregnancy. That week, a voice in Ashtoreth’s head was certain that they were making the right choice by stopping something before it got out of hand. It was easier when she was dizzy with nausea and longing for sleep. 

So she would think about what kind of world could she bring it into. A world that, if they failed, was just going to go up in flame on a definite date in the next five years? A world where the being’s mixed parentage of angel and demon gave them no protection on either side come Armageddon? Hardly the life a child deserved. 

But the stupid, illogical, saccharine voice - smaller in comparison, but just as a present - made her dream of this little life and of a world that wasn’t doomed to end. 

Sleeping had always been Crowley’s favorite pastime. He had slept for entire centuries before and had turned to it when things weren’t … exactly going his way. So naturally, in the form of Ashtoreth, laying down at the end of the day was always needed. 

Tucked between her flannel sheets, her eyes traced the outline of cracks in the ceiling, she tried to lull herself to sleep. She would think again to how her womb was knitting together what could if she went with the Plan, be a child. And then her mind wandered to long ago and far away to when he had first witnessed life at its very beginning. 

It was Mesopotamia, after the Flood. Crawly had been given the notice from his superiors to stick around that area longer - there was great temptation afoot and clearly the Opposition had great plans for workings in and around that part of Earth. He didn't mind it so much, waiting out to try and persuade whatever doings the Opposition was tirelessly working on to go against their intended order. The hot desert had also served his serpentine nature well; better than getting an assignment somewhere cold. Not only that, but Crawly was taking a liking to watching human life unfold. 

While he was waiting on more specifics, he was given the goal of winning souls for their side. He still had the same vague basic instruction as “Go up there and make some trouble” as he did before, but centuries of interacting with human beings were teaching him more and more. His method varies, depending on what his target found most alluring, but often it involved presenting in a female corporation. Putting on wiles and things like that. 

Although, as time passed, she found he actually quite liked this human female-appearing form. It had advantages she hadn't considered until it had been put into praxis. But it was the moment when she wasn't doing it for some demonic purpose that she found something . . . unexpected. 

She had been assigned to head west, towards the big city, and was moving through a group of travelers over rocky terrain. A woman, heavy with child, and her husband were hoping to finish crossing before the birth. That, of course, was not the case, and, after a night of being riddled with aches, it was nearing time for the baby to come. 

There were no midwives in this group, only a few women who had children as one point or another. And of course, Crawly, who had never witnessed such an event up close. The women worked together as a team, fetching water, speaking in a calm, reassuring voice as the woman at the center of it all heaved and moaned as she inched closer to bringing forth another life. 

Crawly helped, too, and also in ways not just that were merely observed by the others. As she took her turn by the laboring woman’s side, helping her walk through ebbs and flow of pain, Crawly worked miracles of her own. They weren't specific, but they were the ones to ease the other’s pain, to hasten the process in ways she didn't have the vocabulary for, back then. 

The woman, sensing that her pains became much more manageable while Crawly was near, insisted that she be by her side. Crawly had clutched her hands through contractions as in a squatting position, she grunted and groaned and panted and pushed.

And then, before Crawly knew it, there was the start of a life. The eldest woman pulled from beneath the mother’s bunched skirts an infant giving a belligerent cry, sounding somehow so ancient and yet so new. Crawly starred from her place as the newly-made mother welcomed the squirming child into her arms, tears streaming down her face as she met her son face-to-face for the first time. 

It had been one of the few experiences, Crawly admitted later, that impacted the way she carried herself about on this Earth. Up until that moment, she has considered herself merely floating among the humans. It was part of the job. But witnessing a new mother hold her child was part of the greater undoing of what she had been ordered to do as a demon, the very first un-tying of a series of strings that had allowed her to pull herself away from orders. It might have been suggested from the Flood, and the Almighty’s carelessness and full wrath, that she started to be critical of how God was running the planet (though . . . her questions, in the Beginning, were what made her a demon in the first place), but it was the birth that she became critical of Hell.

And so Crowley laid now, centuries, so different from the demon in the desert witnessing nativity, as his corporation worked tirelessly to create something new. Crowley had created things once, millennia ago. He had painted the night sky and crafted the cosmos, but the Fall forced him to try and destroy (or at least disorder) what was created. For the first time in a long time, he was using the power of creation to make something that hadn’t existed already. And when he thought of that feeling he so missed, it was easy to get attached to it.

And the more he thought about creation, the more he thought about the Plan. Not this plan that he and Aziraphale concocted to prevent Armageddon, but the Great Plan. As much as Aziraphale could insist that this . . . _baby_ was not part of God’s mysterious ways, there was a feeling about this whole thing that he couldn’t shake. For as much as he could try and say that there was no meaning to him getting pregnant now, in the middle of trying to save the world of which they had become fond, there was something significant about it. Significance that Crowley couldn’t ignore. 

Because of course, the child of an angel and a demon could never be apolitical. 

***

The distance between Ashtoreth and Francis the week after they found out about the baby, perhaps, was for the better. It gave them both the room to breathe, to gather their thoughts. It was a lot to think about, but after days of mulling it over as she fed Warlock sandwiches and read to him in the way he still liked even though he was approaching eight years old, she was a little more confident that the conclusions reached were of what she was absolutely certain. 

Over the week, the staff seemed to give her the space she needed to figure everything out. Carol, after that confrontation in the sitting room, remained silent about the possibility of pregnancy but left a hot water bottle in Ashtoreth’s room after refitting her sheets. Rory and Lydia didn’t comment as she started to pick at roast beef and mashed potatoes, but bought mint tea for her to drink in the morning instead of her typical coffee. Calvin never said much, but he always offered her a small smile and nod as she joined Warlock in the car to drive to school. But somehow, even if they weren’t overt with their concern, it was palpable. Humans, for as much as they were known for tearing each other apart, could show their support in small and beautiful ways. 

For as much as the other employees of the Dowling household could try to show their solidarity, the week was still lonely without Francis. 

The blustery Sunday morning when Francis returned was Nanny’s day off that week. From her bedroom window, she saw him step out of the cab and head to deposit his suitcase (filled with books from his secret life at the bookstore in London, she knew) to the cottage he called home. She could have gone to see him right away and be _needy_ and be held and told by the father of her child that everything was going to work out somehow; it was all the things she wanted during that morning in St. James’ and couldn’t have because of how they were presenting. 

But there was still the illusion that she wasn’t with Francis to uphold. It was for the better if she stayed covert and didn’t race to him the first hour in which he was back. For the whole day, she kept to herself in the bedroom and ate dinner with the rest of the staff. Francis joined them, of course, and was asked about his trip out west and how his mother was faring. Ashtoreth only supplied a few questions, simple and polite.

Their eyes met once over the table, both looking worried for each other. And the staff who were on Team Austen Romance, in the minds, racked up another point. 

Evening fell and Warlock was tucked into bed. It was another rainy night, just like that night it all started. This time bundled up in her black mackintosh, Ashtoreth crossed the garden to Francis’ cottage. 

It was Aziraphale, though, who greeted her at the door. He must have known that she was coming to see him. “Hello,”he said gently. He has a small smile and the same look of concern the shared over dinner. 

Crowley’s “Hey” was soft as she was welcomed inside and he helped her out of the wet coat, hanging it next to his own beige one and his enormous sunhat. 

“How was it? Week off in London?” She asked. He had a glass of wine poured and a novel open on his table. 

“Well, it is always nice to be back to the bookshop,” Aziraphale admitted. “Just some minor blessings around town. It was nothing too serious.” He paused. “But you know, I worried about you the whole time.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley insisted as she sat down on the chair opposite the one where Aziraphale was sitting. “ _We’re_ fine.”

“ _We_?” Aziraphale’s eyes fell down to Crowley’s middle, hidden by her wool jacket. 

“Yeah, the little twerp who is making me want to nap until next decade,” Crowley said, with a timid smile as her hand traced her stomach. “Pregnant people do not lie when they talk about how exhausting this whole thing is.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, trying to gather where this . . . jesting came from. “I don’t suppose they would.” He continued, “How was your week?”

Crowley took a deep breath. “I spent a lot of it thinking. About, well, everything.”

“As have I.” Aziraphale stood timidly across from her. She could tell that he was nervous and she wondered what he had been doing all week, besides the basic Blessings and catching up with his book collection and enjoying Haute cuisine - things he missed as Brother Francis. 

“Right. And I know you said that you didn't want to impose anything on me about this or persuade what I do. But I think I came to my own conclusion about all of this.” She took off her glasses and set them on the table. Aziraphale was in front of her and could see directly into her yellow eyes as she told him: “I want to keep this child, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s expression stayed concerned, still somewhat neutral but he walked closer to her. “Well, this wasn’t what I was expecting you to say from when we last met.”

“I know,” Crowley agreed, remembering how their conversation seemed to lead directly to ending the pregnancy. “Thing is that I can’t shake the feeling that this baby means something to the Plan. It’s pretty heavy-handed, though. Got to chalk it up to the Almighty and Her sense of humor for having a child of an angel and a demon be born just before the End Times.” 

“If you really think that’s what best,” Aziraphale said. “Then I am with you.”

Crowley grinned to herself, thankful she had a partner in everything. 

But still, Aziraphale, as supportive as he was, voiced his concern: “But what about Heaven? What about Hell? Crowley, I know they wouldn’t send notes to you for disobeying them or posing some sort of threat.”

“We’ll think of something,” Crowley assured. “Look, I’m not saying that it’s going to be easy. But if anyone can hide something big from our Head Offices, it's you and me.” 

After all, they had hidden their Arrangement successfully for nearly a thousand years. They had hidden their plan to influence the Antichrist for well over six. How hard could hiding a baby be?

“Besides,” Crowley said as Aziraphale took her hand and she ran her long fingers over his plump and manicured ones. She looked up. “I think we got a bit of a taste of the whole parenting thing this past year and so far we haven’t completely bungled it up.” 

“Just imagine that,” Aziraphale breathed. “ _Parents_.”

And the glow around him as he said this at the thought of their child was going to be the one thing Crowley clung to when the world came crashing down around them.


	5. Five.

The night in the gardener's cottage between Aziraphale and Crowley was spent talking, as was every night for the next straight week. They truly talked for the first time since they found out about the pregnancy about what could not have been pondered at St James’ that Saturday. The third night in the cottage, Crowley fell asleep on Aziraphale’s bed where he had been sitting and nursing a cup of tea as they planned how to go about the next seven months. Aziraphale didn’t wake her, instead letting her sleep all night, tucked under a blanket and her hand over his middle that was starting to ever so slightly round.

When Crowley woke up, it was just after dawn. It took a few miracles to straighten her attire and hair so it looked like Nanny Ashtoreth had made herself just as presentable as ever, and when nobody saw her slip into the house from the garden entrance, she assumed she was in the clear. She knew she was being less careful than she had been in the months leading up to her current situation, but eventually the household was going to know the truth. Part of the truth. As much truth as Ashtoreth could give them. 

Crowley was, however, worried about another group of people finding out prematurely, because their findings would have more severe consequences than some gossip over morning coffee and stolen glances to see if her belly was growing. Paranoid about Hell tapping into his mobile and finding out - he was sure they probably couldn’t see his web history, but they had taken over his technology before - Crowley went into town and bought a book that would serve the same purpose as frantic Googling. Aziraphale’s bookshop didn’t have anything about pregnancy other than some pamphlets from the 1920s, advising women on how to wear a maternity corset and encouraging them to give up their garter stockings in fear of varicose veins. 

Ashtoreth kept the book tucked under her bed, in her carpetbag, so Carol wouldn’t find it when she came by to clean the quarters. In all, she didn’t find it particularly useful. She was a demon, after all, and although she had nausea and tiredness, she didn’t expect her pregnancy to go completely the same as a human’s.  _ Rosemary’s Baby  _ might have a more accurate guide. 

Well. The Antichrist was already here, on Earth. And frankly, Ashtoreth could do without the dramatics of a black tulle bassinet with an upside-down cross mobile. 

There was also the real possibility that this baby could also be very much an angel. After all, they had no reason to be damned. And she  _ had  _ been an angel once, of course. Same original stock and all that. But somehow the idea of celestial harmonies and heavenly light accompanying the birth was even worse than elderly humans shouting “Hail Satan!” over tea sandwiches. 

Quite frankly, she didn’t know much about the baby (who was approaching the size of a kumquat). All expecting parents wondered what their baby looked like and the person they’d grow up to be. Ashtoreth had all of that multiplied. For as much time she spent wondering if the baby would have their father’s grey eyes and if their hair would be the same loose curls, she spent triple wondering about other qualities no human parent ever pondered. What exactly  _ was _ this child? Would they have her demonic facilities? Or did they have Aziraphale’s abilities? To what extent were they, well, human? Did the demon-angel-baby inside her flap around little kumquat-sized wings while they kicked?

They probably were to have some sort of human corporation since they were conceived like a human. Ashtoreth feared the possibility of changing nappies - something she had thankfully avoided with Warlock - and having all her dark clothes stained by spit up. But she equally feared the possibility the baby  _ wouldn’t _ do any of that. She would be raising the baby alongside Warlock, and the staff and Dowlings would notice if the baby never ate or if there wasn’t a full bin of nappies in her room every few days. She had already adjusted so much of her behavior to blend in with the humans just a little more to not raise suspicions, but it was because she had thousands of years of controlling her body. A newborn couldn’t be expected to do the same. 

And then she worried about her ability to raise her Master’s child while she raised her own. Already, Warlock was starting to get suspicious because of her “morning sickness”, but he never said much of anything that indicated he picked up on anything other than she had some sort of stomach virus. 

One Friday night while the Dowlings were in town for a play, Nanny Ashtoreth let Warlock stay up late and watch a movie with her. They were watching  _ Beetlejuice _ , a favorite between the two. Crowley would write it off as “Instilling an interest in Darkness and Chaos” in his reports but really Warlock loved the sandworm and Ashtoreth could watch Catherine O’Hara in anything. 

She had made them popcorn, given that Warlock had eaten all his vegetables at dinner. But halfway through, when Warlock made her pause the DVD so he could use the toilet. When he returned to the living room, the sound of a can popping and a soft crackle of something fizzing alerted her attention from her mobile. 

“Warlock, dearest, you know your parents don’t like you to have sugar, especially this late at night,” Ashtoreth chastised as she set the device on the side table. 

“It’s not for me!” The boy insisted when he walked around the couch. In his hand was a can of ginger ale, not some overly sweet drink that kids loved. He thrusted it forward and some of the amber liquid sloshed. “It’s for you.”

“For me?” Ashtoreth looked at the can. 

“Carol said that you’ve been feeling bad lately,” Warlock told her. “And when I have an upset tummy, sometimes Mom gives me some ginger ale.” 

Ashtoreth sighed. Carol was the one who (correctly) suspected her pregnancy. She could only hope that if she was going to be a gossip with the rest of the staff, she didn’t say anything too incriminating in front of Warlock. She wanted to be able to tell everyone - and Warlock most of all - on her own terms.

“That is very sweet of you to think of me, lamb,” Nanny Ashtoreth says, accepting the can. She set it down on the coffee table with a coaster. 

Warlock settled back into his spot tucked himself back into the red comforter from his bedroom. Ashtoreth pressed ‘Play’ on the remote. Every now and again, she took a few sips of the drink.

While Barbara and Adam tentatively explored the hallways of the Afterlife (and Ashtoreth always admitted she liked how the offices were just like Hell’s, crowded and chaotic and filled with paperwork), Warlock asked: “Do you still have an upset tummy?” 

“Not right now,” she answered. 

“Is the soda helping?” 

“It is,” she told him, even though she had not been sick that late in the evening that day. What could have been called morning sickness was starting to subside, just a little bit, in the past two or three weeks. She was approaching what could have been called her second trimester, and the book did tell her that was to be expected around this time. “That was very attentive of you. It is a mark of a good Ruler, anticipating the need of subordinates.” 

Warlock nodded. He was quiet for a little while, turning his focus to the television and watching the continued exploits of Beetlejuice the demon. (Or was he a ghost? The movie used those terms like they were interchangeable. It was Ashtoreth’s tenth viewing in a year and she still pondered this over her popcorn.)

Her charge spoke again. “Nanny?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I’m not going to get a tummy ache from hanging out with you, right?” 

Ashtoreth laughed for the first time about this whole predicament. “No.I promise you, I can’t get you sick.”

Warlock accepted her answer at face value with a “‘Kay” and then was quickly distracted by the first appearance of Michael Keaton. And when she tucked him for the night, he asked for her to sing him their lullaby, even though he insisted he was getting too old for little kid stuff.

***

Before they knew it, spring was returning to London again. The Earth started to smell of the heavy, fruitful March rain - so different from foggy and chilly February downpours. There was the potential of future growth in the area as the temperatures inched warmer and the beginning of buds began to form. 

The American Ambassador residency was also filled with things that signified the start of a new season. Francis was still as busy as ever in the greenhouse, planning for , tending to the verdant garden growing behind glass panes. Harriet and Thadeus schedules began to fill up - Thadeus, to around the United Kingdom, Harriet to planning committees for annual charitable events. Ashtoreth accompanied Warlock to and from football practice, now that the league has resumed playing. 

Things were changing with the seasons and the early days of spring started to bring about the thickening of Ashtoreth’s waistline. 

When he took up the mission for Hell to oversee the raising of the Antichrist into the Darkness, he had made a certain effort to distance Crowley the Demon from Ashtoreth the Nanny. While on a surface level, their color palettes were similar, the aesthetics couldn’t be more different. Expensive, but somehow casual and effortless fit his personal tastes, but Ashtoreth wore dark, tweedy suits consisting of wooley blazers and pencil skirts. 

But the strict and straight-laced form of Nanny’s attire couldn’t hide a shifting corporation.

In the morning light in the middle of March, Ashtoreth fussed with her skirt, struggling to get the clasp to fasten around her waist. It was having trouble budging, more so than it was yesterday and the day before. Her miracles were having trouble keeping up, having to loosen snug fabric. She didn’t know how long she could keep up this charade and instead purchase something more forgiving. Already, the slightest bit of her stomach protrude through, no matter how much of a miracle she used, making her look like she had a large lunch even this early in the day. 

She sighed and snapped her fingers.

The skirt instantly gave way and she secured the clasp and closed the zipper.She straighened herself in the mirror, adjusting her silk blouse that thankfully didn’t need a miracle today. 

Someone in the house had to notice very soon. She was nearing the fourth month, and with the weather was warming, her summer wardrobe didn’t have all the same woolly layers to hide a swelling stomach. One of her Google searches, when this all came to light, was when exactly this bundle of joy was due to arrive. Knowing the last time was probably the time, she’d be the most pregnant during the summer. 

Ashtoreth went downstairs to the kitchen to have her usual cup of tea before waking Warlock and making sure he was up, dressed in his uniform, fed, and out the door to the driver on time. She had grown accustomed to mint tea in the mornings. It’s what Lydia and Rory have been serving her for a while now, even though her morning sickness was mostly subsided. Besides, according to that book, it was probably better for the baby - regardless if they were an angel-demon - than the fully caffeinated black coffee she typically enjoyed. 

Lydia had the kettle on for her and the box of Twinings, half empty, set out. She greeted the other staff members, as she busied herself filling a cup from the samovar with warm enough water (a miracle would heat it up to Ashtoreth’s preferred temperature) and dunking a tea bag. As she waited for it to steep, she stood against the counter and hoped no one’s prying eyes looked to her middle to see if she fatter.

Carol, over a week ago, on a day when Ashtoreth didn’t do so aggressive of a miracle, had discretely asked if she needed something taken out. But Carol wasn’t here this morning, having her own children to worry about before she reported to the Dowlings at nine. Even still, people talk, and Ashtoreth was sure that the others were catching on. Rory and Lydia seemed to be stealing glances at her waist between dishing bacon and spooning jelly. 

Brother Francis came bustling in, heartily wishing everyone a good morning. Nanny Ashtoreth made way for him to stand at her side. He fashioned himself a cup of tea - Earl Grey - and both employees waited for the tea to be strong enough. 

Suddenly, Rory and Lydia absolutely needed to leave the kitchen with their half filled bacon trays and jam bowls

Aziraphale fussed with his tea bag. “Had to get them out for a moment,” he reasoned. “I could sense they were starting to catch on.” He looked up to her under bushy eyebrows. “You  _ are  _ planning on saying something soon, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Mmmm, I was thinking I’d say something in October, ” Crowley said. 

“Crowley, the baby would be born by -”

“I  _ know _ , Angel. It was a joke.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You need to tell Harriet at least. Since she’s the one who’s going to be the most thrown off guard by this . . . whole affair.”

Crowley's gloved hand ran over the pulled fabric of her skirt. “Very well,” she conceded with a sigh. She took a sip of tea, so wishing it was coffee despite her new habit. “I’ll do it this evening, after Warlock’s been tucked in for the night.”

Rory strolled in not a moment afterward with his dish of bacon and murmured, “Forgot my head, so I did.”

***

A woman of her word, Nanny Ashtoreth knocked on the open doorway of Harriet Dowling’s study later that evening.

Often busy with her own agenda, involved in one charity organization or another, Harriet required her own small study. It consisted of her bookcases, her desk, a wingback chair, and an antique coach. She would typically retreat there after Warlock had been put to bed, working her way through reading a book for pleasure. This evening, she was draped on the couch, still dressed for the day san her shoes, kicked to the side and under the sofa, and flipping through a dog-eared copy of  _ Christine _ .

Ashtoreth cleared her throat when the knock didn’t gain attention. “Mrs. Dowling, may I speak to you?” 

Harriet snapped up and looked to the figure in the doorway. “Hey, yeah, absolutely.” She set down her Stephen King novel, un-tucked her legs underneath herself, and sat up straighter. She motioned to the chair in front of her. “Come sit down.”

Ashtoreth took her offer and crossed the threshold into the office before praying she could sit down with ease, now that there was something in her front affecting her balance. She managed to fall into the chair with ease, crossing her legs at the ankle and clasping her hands together. 

“So. What did you want to talk about?” Harriet began, before she cocked her head. “Warlock’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”

“Oh no,” Ashtoreth corrected. “Warlock has been a delightful child. Mrs. Dowling, I’m afraid this is a more personal matter that needs addressed urgently.”

“Well,” Harriet paused a moment. “If this is about money, then I can run it by Thaddeus as soon as possible when he gets back from Belfast on Sunday. We both love having you.”

Ashtoreth smiled to herself. If only it was as simple as a raise. “It’s a little more than money, my dear.”

“Okay . . . Is it something with your health?” Harriet had a flash of horror behind her eyes. “You’re not  _ sick _ ?” When Ashtoreth told her  _ no _ once again, the younger woman corrected herself. “God, sorry. I’ll just shut up and let you tell me rather than assume anything,”

And Ashtoreth took a deep breath before she just said it: “Mrs. Dowling, I’m afraid I’ve found myself unexpectedly…. Well, expecting.”

“Oh.” That damn utterance again. It was going to drive her mad.

The two women looked at each other for a minute, Ashtoreth behind her dark glasses and Harriet’s wide and very human brown eyes that tried to process everything. 

Ashtoreth couldn’t blame her. Here Harriet’s Nanny was, unmarried or uninvolved. (Harriet and Thadeus, as busy as they were, did not seem to notice how often Nanny Ashtoreth was in the company of the gardener.) Her appearance was somewhere around the human age of forty-five years. And she seemed very devoted to her job helping to raise Warlock. Nothing gave much of an indication that Nanny

When Harriet finally said something beyond a syllable, she murmured,“I guess that is unexpected.”

“It was unplanned, of course,” Ashtoreth continued. “But I felt that it was paramount, as your employee, that I discuss this issue with you.”

Harriet drew a breath. “Do you need… some time off?” 

And Ashtoreth knew what she was implying. She shook her head in response to an unspoken implication.

“I want to keep this child,” she said, firm before she faltered and admitted something that was laughable if Harriet knew who Ashtoreth really was, “ I am not quite a spring chicken, and I have always wanted children of my own. I’m afraid that I won’t have this chance again.”

Harriet nodded. “You know, I kinda miss having a baby in the house. I loved those first few months with Warlock, even if they’re a bit of a blur now.”

Ashtoreth asked, “You’d still be willing to have me on staff, even with a child?”

“Well, Warlock  _ is _ getting older and is at school a lot of the time,” Harriet said. “I’m sure you can keep up with him even with your own kid.” She changed the subject for a moment.“How far along are you?”

“A little over fourteen weeks,” Ashtoreth confessed. 

Harriet nodded and Ashtoreth hoped she wasn’t too taken back by exactly how much time had elapsed from when her employee probably found out about the pregnancy to now. “That gives us time to get things sorted out. Maternity leave, of course. Maybe an assistant if you’d like. Any sort of compensation you might need.”

Ashtoreth nodded. “I’m glad I could speak to you about this matter. I’ll leave you be for the night.” She stood up, believing this was the end of the conversation for now.

Instead, the other woman followed, standing up before her hand brushed against Ashtoreth’s woolen jacket.

“I know it seems really scary now,” she said, looking up at Ashtoreth. “I’m afraid it doesn’t  _ quite _ get better; you’re always kinda feeling like you don’t have it all figured out. But, if anyone could ever, you know, figure it out, I know it’s you, Ashtoreth.”

Ashtoreth allowed herself to smile softly. “Thanks, Harriet.”

***

The next morning, after Nanny finished dropping Warlock off at school, she returned to her bedroom to find a packet of ginger candy and a box of chamomile tea. Attached was a note in Harriet’s personal stationary:  _ I hope these helped you as much as they helped me.  _

After her conversation with Harriet, it seemed like word had spread fast. She had given permission for Harriet to tell others. It would just be easier that way, rather than awkwardly trying to navigate conversations with every household staff member as it came up. Mostly so she could avoid some of the smugness that came when, if asked when she was due, that she conceived around Christmas and a certain gardner left the party early in the night. Everyone could have their revelations on their own time. 

Ashtoreth couldn’t exactly pin down the gossip train, but after telling Harriet, receiving her small gifts, and sitting down at the kitchen table for dinner, she supposed it had gotten around  _ fast _ . When she went to pick up work, Calvin opened the car door for her. Lydia had filled her plate with a larger serving and smiled knowingly as she set it down. Rory told her in passing to jot anything down she craved onto the shopping list so he could pick it up when he was out for the big shop. 

Carol, as direct as she was, sent a text that evening saying she had a bunch of hand-me-downs from her son that hadn’t been pushed off to a charity shop, if she needed anything. Ashtoreth replied that she would think about it. 

Thadeus Dowling came home from Belfast that weekend, sometime just after Warlock was going down for the night. She had just tucked him in, sang him his lullaby, and left the dinosaur night light on as she gently shut the door. 

Just as she turned to walk down the hall, she saw Thadeus with his suitcase, his suit wrinkled from travel. 

“Ash!”

“Good evening, Mr. Dowling,” she greeted. “How was your stay in Belfast?”

“Wonderful! Have you ever been?” He asked, recounting one of the excursions he had with several Northern Irish officials. “There was a whole museum about the Titanic. They have a  _ ride _ there, like in Disneyland.”

Ashtoreth briefly thought about how it would shock the Ambassador if he knew that she, in another form and lifetime, had been in Southampton in spring 1912 for absolutely unrelated reasons and saw the great ship in person. 

“I have not,” she replied. “But I’m glad you had a pleasant trip.”

She was prepared for him to be tired enough to not address the elephant in the room, but he let her know that it was on his mind with, “Harriet told me all about your situation, by the way. Got the phone call Wednesday night, after a couple Guinesses at the bar.”

“I’m sorry I had to be the damper on your time at the pub,” she apologized.

“No, it was fine.” Thadeus shrugged. “Once I sobered up the next day, we talked about it and agreed to firm up some of the details of the new arrangement next week.”

“I would greatly appreciate that, Mr. Dowling.”

She was prepared to bid him a good night before he asked: “You haven’t told Warlock anything right?”

Ashtoreth answered honestly. “He doesn’t know about my condition, if that’s what you are implying, sir.” 

She was comfortable telling her on paper employers, sure, but to tell a comfortable and perhaps spoiled only child who happened to be the Antichrist,  the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness was another.

“I meant if you’ve had to explain just  _ how _ this happened,” Thadeus explained, motion with one had in her general direction of her growing middle. “It’s bound to come up.”

Nanny Ashtoreth was sure there was to be plenty of questions, when the time finally came. “Well, Mr. Dowling, he is eight years old. If the conversation should be broached, would you like to talk to him or would you like me to address it?”

An expression of great relief spread over Thadeus’ face. “Would you?” He sighed. “That would be a life saver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you all heard Nick Offerman's voice reading that last exchange. Also, I am the One Woman Harriet Dowling Protection Squad.


End file.
